


Bask

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment between Lord Elrond and his servant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bask

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Lindir has a massive crush on his Lord, and it's not unrequited by Elrond is tortured by "I am a bad, bad man (elf?)!" angst because he knows his young steward adores him a little too much, but is still very turned on by it” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25515266#t25515266).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s pleasantly warm, even at this time of year, as the sun slips down through the valley. The golden light snakes around the pillars and dances across the round shape of Elrond’s bed, his body neatly arranged in the middle. He has a scroll across his lap, though in truth, he hasn’t taken in the runes for some time. 

The man behind him is far too distracting. Lindir’s legs are folded around him, the long, purple robes stretched across Lindir’s knees and flattened into Elrond’s back. Elrond’s silver crown has been removed, placed beside him on the blankets, while Lindir sweeps Elrond’s long hair behind his shoulders and brushes down the length. The small, wooden spindles having nothing to catch onto—Lindir keeps this mane far too clean for knots. It’s been many years since Elrond has brushed anyone’s hair, his children now being far too old for his careful attentions, but Lindir seems to take pleasure in the task. 

But then, Lindir seems to take pleasure in anything that services Elrond. Elrond would never ask for this, for aid so personal and intimate, but Lindir dotes on him and always offers. And Elrond has begun to give in. Once, he was stronger. He’s turned other elves away from his chambers before, but none so tempting as his young Lindir, who sweeps in with that subdued smile and the brimming adoration, calmness and respect. Everything about Lindir’s presence suits Elrond too well, and as his eyes scan the scroll yet again, he accepts that he’ll get very little done tonight. 

Lindir draws the brush up to the very top of Elrond’s skull, holds it down with just enough pressure for Elrond to feel the teasing rub of it, and then it strokes back along the brown waves. It smoothes down his spine, and he can feel the slight pull as the brush catches between Lindir’s fingers—he must be running his hands through it again. Lindir’s want is obvious. There’s a slight hitch in his breath whenever he approaches Elrond, a spark in his eyes whenever they first connect. Now, he leans so close that Elrond can feel his body heat, and it’s an alluring song: what Elrond would’ve give to submit. It would be too easy to turn and draw his aide into him, seal their lips and fall sideways to the bed, meld close to one another and ignore the world, weather the ages with nothing but this sweet, melodious bliss. 

Would that he lived in that sort of world. Would that Lindir were older, or Elrond younger, the two of them peers instead of master and servant. Propriety stays his hand, and he attempts the words, one last time. 

More time has clearly passed than he thought. The brush finally falls away and doesn’t return. He knows that Lindir would happily brush his hair for an age, or at least until his arms grew sore. Yet Lindir shifts out from behind Elrond, the engraved brush placed beside the crown. 

Lindir crawls to sit in front of Elrond instead, folding his legs like Elrond, so their knees can brush. His eyes linger only on Elrond’s hair, and Elrond knows why—Lindir doesn’t trust himself to look into Elrond’s face. It’s a familiar caution. Elrond examines the slender lines of Lindir’s beautiful body, the softness of his face and the elegance of his long fingers, until it becomes too much. Then Elrond returns to his scroll, though Lindir’s body casts certain shadows through his light. 

Lindir separates several strands over Elrond’s shoulder, divides them into three, and starts to fold. The braid he makes is small, intricate. His face is half consumed in concentration, the rest luxuriating in the situation. There’s something thickly intimate to the gesture. Elrond averts his eyes to the view beyond his balcony, but it pales in comparison to the beauty that breathes just before his face. 

Their connection’s grown too deep. He knows that. As the braid trails down Elrond’s shoulder, Lindir’s fingers going with it, Elrond places a heavy hand over them to stop it. Lindir freezes instantly. His eyes flicker up to Elrond’s, worry flittering over his cute features. He must think he’s gone too far. 

Elrond would have Lindir go farther, yet he forces himself to say, “This is not right.” His voice comes out quiet, slow and deep. 

Lindir ducks his head submissively: a quick bow. “I apologize, Lord Elrond,” he returns with quickened breath and a small, pink tongue flickering unhelpfully out between his lips. “I know I am not worthy—”

Elrond sighs, which effectively cuts Lindir off. “It isn’t that.” Of course it isn’t. He’s a little saddened that Lindir would think him prone to such cruel ideals. Yet he understands, and he watches Lindir look up at him, still half bowed, hands still caught in his. Elrond can’t quite bring himself to let go. 

He tries to explain everything that they both already know, whether they’ve spoken of it in words or not. “I’m very old, and you are very young—you have much before you that I have left behind. And my position wields power over yours—it would not be fair to you that I shall always be a lord.”

“A fair, just one,” Lindir replies with such utter confidence. “And one that I’ve _chosen_ to serve.”

That doesn’t change anything. But this is the most Lindir has ever defied him. It’s strange to see his servant stand firm against his doubts, and the conviction does give Elrond pause. He still says, “You deserve a young buck.”

“What does age matter in the life of an elf?”

Elrond has nothing to say to that. He feels tired sometimes, more so than he once did, and his body doesn’t always respond as quickly as it used to. But he still has many years in this world, centuries, perhaps. And he knows that Lindir is wise enough to know that. 

Lindir is young, but he isn’t foolhardy. He’s sincere and thoughtful, intelligent, and irresistible. While Elrond simply looks at him, Lindir asks, “May I continue braiding your hair?”

Elrond says, “Yes,” but he doesn’t release Lindir’s hands quite yet. Instead, he lifts them to his mouth. He can’t resist placing a small, light peck against the back of Lindir’s knuckles. Lindir’s lips part, and he makes a tiny, mewling noise, as though he’s just holding back a moan. 

He would be easy to take, right here and now, with all their trepidations on the table. Elrond reminds himself that Lindir could change his mind at any point, but then they could hardly continue this relationship, with Elrond _wanting_ him so badly. He’d need to get another servant. He doesn’t want another servant, and he doesn’t ever want to find Lindir missing from his side. 

He drops his hand to his lap, and he allows Lindir to continue his braid. It isn’t clear where they stand, but Lindir says no more of it. He’s waited with these feelings a long time; evidently, he’s willing to wait longer. It’s easier to go slowly. Elrond rolls up the scroll and sets it aside. 

He enjoys just _Lindir_ , running soft fingers through his hair, until the braid is skillfully secured in a little knot. Then Lindir moves to the other side, starting a second braid to mirror the first. 

He gets three rows done before Elrond has waited _too_ long, and he leans that extra smidgen forward, meeting Lindir halfway to surrender.


End file.
